


Tangled Up in Blue

by AEMiz



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Killin' slavers like it's a job, On the Run, POV Alternating, Post-Game(s), actually not that romance heavy tbh, also in present tense because why not
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-20
Updated: 2016-12-07
Packaged: 2018-03-31 12:25:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 14,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3977926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AEMiz/pseuds/AEMiz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I cannot personally right all the wrongs of the world, Fenris,” Hawke says with finality. “Much as I might want to. I can’t help this girl and Anders, and for once, for once, I’m going to protect the person I love.”<br/>Fenris is fuming but silent. He’s been present for many of Hawke’s losses, and he’s certainly no stranger to Hawke disagreeing with him.<br/>“You will do what you must,” Fenris says at length. Hawke can see a battle raging in the elf’s eyes, but thinks he knows what the outcome will be.<br/>He is unsurprised when, after a moment of quiet, Fenris speaks again.<br/>“This is where we part, Hawke.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

Hawke sees her first, which is a wonder considering the knot of slave runners undulating around them. She’s small and bruised and bloodied and _surrounded_. He shouts for Anders, but it’s Fenris who moves, cutting a bloody path to the girl.

A body knocks him aside, and Hawke loses sight of her and the elf as he falls into the fray again.

The slavers are down—finally. Hawke lets out a breath as he sheathes his blades.

They’re supposed to be lying low. They’re supposed to be in hiding.

But after Meredith, after the chantry, after Danarius, after _all of it_ none of them could ignore the screaming. They ran towards the sound without hesitation.

“Far out from the city to be slavers,” Anders notes, nudging a nearby corpse with his foot. “But I suppose there’s not much trade to be had in Kirkwall.”

“Trying to catch refugees, people no one will miss,” Hawke suggests. He treads with caution towards the girl the dead men had sought to take.

She’s slid to the ground against the trunk of a tree, her eyes blown wide and her knees pulled up to her chest. She’s got a white-knuckled grip on the grass on either side of her. Her body is trembling—she doesn’t realize that she’s safe, Hawke comprehends with some chagrin. He forgets he’s not in Kirkwall, that even if he was, his presence doesn’t inspire innocent people with feelings of safety.

He wants to comfort her, but once again, Fenris is ahead of him.

The elf sets down his blade on the grass in front of her. Her eyes snap from him to the blade and back. She doesn’t stop shaking. She doesn’t release the grass.

“We will not hurt you,” Fenris says. Hawke grimaces. There is, as there nearly always is, a note of barely-contained rage in the elf’s voice. From him, Hawke reckons, the promise doesn’t sound reassuring.

Her eyes, round and sapphire blue, are on Fenris’s face, tracing its lines with scrutiny.

Hawke thinks for a moment that she’s going to run—right into another group of slavers, if his luck with people he tries to help holds.

Her grip on the grass loosens. She gives the elf the slightest nod to show her understanding and tucks her hair behind her own long, pointed ear.

Hawke opens his mouth, ready to take over, but Fenris is pulling off his gauntlets and reaching out his hands to her. She doesn’t take them, and Fenris doesn’t seem surprised.

The two of them are still for several long moments before the girl nods again. Fenris takes hold of her wrist; Hawke makes a conscious effort to keep his jaw from dropping, and he can only hope that he’s more successful in his attempt than Anders is.

With more gentleness than Hawke would have thought resided in the elf, Fenris stretches out the girls arm, the lyrium patterns burnt into his skin emitting faint glow as he examines her.

Anders catches Hawke’s eye and cocks his head to one side. _What in the Maker’s name is this?_

Hawke shrugs. _Not a clue._

Fenris releases her arm, muttering something in Arcanum that Hawke assumes would be frowned upon in polite company.

“They did a spell,” the girl says. It is the first time she has spoken, and something about the birdsong of her voice calls Bethany to his mind. She has pulled her arm back towards her body. Hawke can see her tracing the long line of a scar on her forearm.

“Yes,” Fenris says through clenched teeth. He lets out another string of words that Hawke thinks he might recognize the meaning of, if not the sound.

It’s obvious that Fenris knows what spell has been done on the girl, which makes it obvious that whatever the spell was, it wasn’t good.

The girl may not have Hawke’s insight on Fenris, but she seems to arrive at a similar conclusion. “What did they do?”

“Tracking magic,” he says. The elf makes eye contact with Hawke for the first time since the fight began, and Hawke understands.

Blood magic. They can find her.

“Tracking,” the girl repeats slowly, rolling the word around on her tongue.

“Then we ought to get moving,” Hawke says. It is the first he has spoken. From the way her eyes turn wildly toward him, he thinks she might have forgotten he was there. Again, Hawke is half-sure she’ll run.

Fenris gives him _that look_ , and Hawke knows he’s been misinterpreted again. “To try to find a way to undo the magic,” he says pointedly.

Anders is frowning—which isn’t that unusual since the chantry, Hawke notes with some regret—but it’s in thought rather than anger or pain. “Not an easy thing to do,” he says slowly. His eyes flicker to Hawke’s face. “Especially considering we’re already being hunted.”

Hawke understands Anders’s meaning, or thinks he does, at least. He turns his gaze to the girl again.

Her body is still wound in tension, but she’s not running, which is as much as can be asked for. She’s turned herself—slightly but certainly—towards Fenris. She seems to have decided that the elf is not dangerous.

Before everything, Hawke would have laughed at that.

Hawke turns the situation over in his mind. Blood magic means a blood ritual, which means either finding Merrill again—or getting Varric to find her—or taking the time for Anders to learn the right magic for the spell.

There was no telling how long it would take to get to Merrill—if she had even gone somewhere that she could be followed, which was no guarantee—and Varric had been oddly silent in the last weeks, since he suggested that the Chantry might be looking for Hawke as well as his mage. Anders was a wanted man, and not just in the Free Marches. He couldn’t stop moving long enough to learn some complicated Tevinter ritual.

“They can find me,” the girl says, as though it has only just occurred to her. She turns a wide-eyed gaze onto Fenris and Bethany again comes unbidden to Hawke’s mind.

They can find her. And there is no way to tell who or what else they may lead towards the trio of men fleeing Kirkwall.

Hawke meets Anders’s eyes and sees nothing but regret and apology. A moment passes between them and Hawke knows where his priorities have to lie. Hawke allows his fingertips to brush against the mage’s cheekbone before he turns again to the girl and crosses the small distance that still stretches between them.

Fenris does not watch Hawke as he lowers himself onto his knees beside the elf and the girl, but Hawke is not foolish enough to think that Fenris hasn’t heard what was said, doesn’t know what happens next.

“Do you have any family?” Hawke asks. “Anyone that’s looking for you?”

The girl shook her head, hazelnut curls swinging with the movement.

“Is there anyone we can take you to that could keep you safe?”

There are tears in her eyes—or maybe in his—as she shakes her head again.

“Hawke,” Fenris says. It’s only thanks to years of knowing him that Hawke recognizes the plea in the elf’s voice.

“Anders will heal you,” Hawke tells the girl. His eyes turn to Fenris. “And then we have to leave.”

Fenris rises as Hawke does, but does not go after him until Anders lowers himself to the ground next to the girl.

“Hawke,” Fenris repeats as he nears. “You cannot leave her. The slavers—“

“She doesn’t need Anders and I bringing the forces of the Chantry down on her any more than she needs the slavers,” Hawke says. “She stays with us, it’s bad for everyone.”

“So we are to leave her to be taken by them?” Fenris demands. There’s heat radiating from his lyrium brands and Hawke wonders, briefly and not for the first time, when the elf’s patience with him will finally run out.

“I cannot personally right all the wrongs of the world, Fenris,” Hawke says with finality. “Much as I might want to. I can’t help this girl and Anders, and for once, for _once_ , I’m going to protect the person I love.”

Fenris is fuming but silent. He’s been present for many of Hawke’s losses, and he’s certainly no stranger to Hawke disagreeing with him.

“You will do what you must,” Fenris says at length. Hawke can see a battle raging in the elf’s eyes, but thinks he knows what the outcome will be.

He is unsurprised when, after a moment of quiet, Fenris speaks again. “This is where we part, Hawke.”

It is, Hawke realizes slowly, the simplest solution to the problem. Hawke and Anders are on the run, but the Chantry has shown no interest in Fenris. And Hawke can think of no one better suited to the task of protecting an innocent from slavers.

“You’ll need to find Merrill,” Hawke says. He bites back a smile at Fenris’s visible twitch at the blood mage’s name. “She ought to be able to reverse the magic. Start with Varric, if you can. I think he’s managed to keep up with everyone.”

Fenris doesn’t respond immediately. There is a tightness in his shoulders—an uncertainty that Hawke hasn’t seen since Fenris had killed his former master.

After a long moment, Fenris gives a curt nod and extends his hand. Hawke takes it briefly and meets the elf’s eyes.

“It’s been an honor, Fenris,” Hawke says.

A half smile that, for Fenris, is the equivalent of a full-on grin stretches across the elf’s face. “So it has, Hawke,” he answers. “Be well, my friend.”

“And you,” Hawke says, though the elf has turned from him by the time he gets the words out.

He can’t hear what words pass between Fenris and the other elf, but he can tell from the girl’s raised eyebrows that, whatever they are, she didn’t expect them. She spares half a glance to Hawke and Anders before rising unsteadily to her feet and creeping further into the woods, the lyrium-branded elf close behind her.

Fenris, for his part, spares the briefest of glances over his shoulder at the two men that have been his companions for so long. With barely a nod of his head, the elf is gone.

“Good luck,” Hawke breathes. “Stay safe.”


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Varric is tired and wants to know why someone else is in his bed.

Varric has never missed his room in the Hanged Man so much. After hours of being interrogated by Seeker Pentaghast, of having to relive the best and worst times of his life from an uncomfortable seat in a cold room in a house that used to be his best friend’s home, all the dwarf wants is to collapse in his bed and sleep for days.

But there’s an elven woman that he’s never seen before curled up asleep on his bed. He heaves a sigh.

“Don’t know what they told you, kid, but this room’s taken,” he says, crossing the room to loom next to the bed.

It’s not the first time someone has drunkenly stumbled into his room to sleep off their bad decisions. Normally he’s willing to be patient—but normally he hasn’t been manhandled and interrogated for days. He reaches out to put a hand on her shoulder, to shake her awake.

A harsh grip latches itself around his wrist, and a faint blue glow fills the room.

“Let her sleep,” a familiar voice half growls.

Varric shakes his head. He _knows_ that voice—but he _can’t_ know that voice, because that voice is on the run with Hawke.

The grip on Varric’s wrist loosens, and a lanky shadow trimmed with lines of glowing white-blue moves towards the door.

Varric casts a longing glance at his bed before shrugging his shoulders and following.

The broody elf who is supposed to be with Hawke leans heavily against the doorframe. He looks tired, which is to be expected, Varric supposes, but not comforting. He can’t recall a time when Fenris didn’t seem ready to move at the slightest notice, visibly twitching with a nervous energy that no one dared mention.

That energy is conspicuously absent, and Varric is not sure that he wants to know what happened to deplete it.

Silence hangs over them for several minutes. After his experience with the seeker, Varric seems to have forgotten how to be the one asking the questions, and Fenris has never been the best at offering information.

It is Varric that finds the rhythm of conversation first.

“What the hell happened, Broody?”

Fenris doesn’t answer immediately, and Varric is grateful for that small bit of normalcy in what has been a truly strange and awful series of days.

“Hawke and I parted ways,” Fenris says at length.

Varric huffs a humorless laugh. “So I gathered.” He lets them lapse once more into silence for a moment before asking a question he’s not quite sure he wants the answer to. “Hawke’s alright?”

The elf half-shrugs. “As far as I know. He and his mage are still running.”

Varric lets out a breath, allowing his eyes to fall closed. “Well, that’s something.”

“He will likely contact you,” Fenris offers.

“He’d better,” Varric says. He takes a deep breath, pinching the bridge of his nose, preparing for what he’s sure will be a headache.

“So,” the dwarf continues. “Want to tell me about the little elf girl that I’m apparently letting have my room for the night?”

Fenris straightens and levels Varric with a gaze that the dwarf thinks is best described as “damned unnerving.”

“She needs help,” Fenris says. “She is being tracked by Tevinter slavers. Blood magic,” he hisses. “She needs—I need your help.”

Varric frowns. This will be a headache—probably a bigger one than he’d thought. “Alright, Broody,” he says, directing the elf to the squat table and chairs in his suite. “Sit down, start at the beginning.”

* * *

The girl’s name is Lyra, and beyond the name, that she had the supreme misfortune to be rounded up by slavers when fleeing the city, and the fact that it’s unlikely the poor kid has slept since the beginning of the whole ordeal, the elf can tell Varric nothing about her.

Varric takes a long swing of the ale he had brought up from downstairs midway through Fenris’s tale. Slavers and blood magic—it’s no surprise that Fenris left Hawke to help the girl. And with half the damn world trying to find Hawke and Anders, it’s no surprise that the elf is with her alone. But the tale of saving the damsel from slavery and fleeing from pursuers in the night leaves one question unanswered.

“Not to tell you how to pull off your rescue,” Varric says, watching Fenris over the lip of his stein, “but heading back into a city that’s falling apart doesn’t seem like the best way to escape slavers.”

Fenris doesn’t answer. His eyes, Varric notices, keep darting back towards the sleeping figure still curled up under the coverlet.

“Fenris,” Varric prompts. “What are you doing here? Why come to me?”

The elf makes a noise of displeasure, his eyes turning back to the dwarf.

“I need a mage to undo the tracking magic,” Fenris says. “I need Merrill.”

Because he understands that the situation is dire, Varric doesn’t laugh at the sour expression that crosses Fenris’s face. Mostly.

“You’re sure Daisy can undo this?” Varric asks.

“The blood mage probably has the necessary skills,” Fenris bites out. “But no, I do not know. There doesn’t seem to be a better option.”

“Eh, can’t argue that,” Varric sighs.

“Do you know where she’s gone?”

“Mmm, maybe,” Varric says, rubbing his chin in thought. “Last I heard, she was trying to help the elves in the Alienage out of the city. I think the plan was to go back across The Waking Sea—back to Ferelden, maybe. The long way, through Ostwick.”

Fenris nods. “Then we leave for Ostwick in the morning.”

Varric shakes his head. “Not that simple, Broody. That information is old—very old. Daisy probably took ship days ago. You’d have to do the same to go after her.”

The elf’s gaze flickers back to the girl once more. Varric sees a glimpse—and only a glimpse of uncertainty in his eyes.

“Then we will find a way,” the elf says at length.

Varric debates, for a moment, how many promises he wants to break in one sitting. He’s already broken the one he made to Hawke about not telling anyone the truth of his story. And the one to Merrill about keeping the evacuation of the Alienage to himself. He takes a deep breath and pinches the bridge of his nose. His life has become very complicated very quickly. It makes him long for the days when he could manage all of his problems with a glib comment at best and an introduction to Bianca at worst. But he cares too much, as he always has. He thinks--or hopes--he can be forgiven for trying to help a friend.

“It may be easier than you think,” Varric says at length.

He pauses, waiting for the elf to ask him for clarification. Fenris says nothing.

_Might’ve expected that_ , Varric thinks.

“Rivaini,” Varric says.

Fenris’s eyes widen. “You told Hawke you couldn’t find her.”

“Hawke was angry,” Varric says. He refuses to believe that it is guilt that makes his voice sound thick. It is the only lie he's every told Hawke, and it eats at him constantly. “I’m not saying he was wrong to be. But if he found her, he would have done something he’d regret. Hawke tortures himself enough. He didn't need to add another burden.”

A frown tugs at Fenris’s lips.

“If it makes you feel better, Broody, I’ll write him and tell him that I found her. Hell, I might do that anyway. Ease some of the guilt. The important thing,” Varric says, waving a hand, “is that Rivaini’s got a ship. She can get you and Sleepy over there to Merrill.”

Varric can see the wheels turning in Fenris’s mind. As he thinks, the elf’s gaze returns to the sleeping girl. There is something—some emotion—in his eyes. For all his gift for words, Varric isn’t certain what to call the expression. It’s not quite warm enough to be fondness, but it’s a kinder gaze that is typical for the elf. It makes Varric half-wish he’d seen her awake.

“Fine,” Fenris says at length. “Tell me where to find her.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um...hi?
> 
> So I finished the degree and then got a teaching job, which meant a lot of prep work.
> 
> But I'm a semester in now, so I'm basically an old pro by this point (no I'm not that's such a lie).
> 
> Anyway, I'm back. And, since I won't be in panic mode trying to prep lectures all the time, I'll hopefully be updating more quickly. The goal is to write a little bit of *something* every night. For now, this fic is the priority. We'll see how that goes, I guess. 
> 
> This was originally chapter 3--chapter 2 was going to be Fenris and Lyra wandering through the woods, but that just...would not be written. This, though, couldn't wait to be on the page. Go figure. Also, it is posted with no beta, so...yay?
> 
> Up next: Fenris is grumpy, Lyra is confused, and Isabella is down for anything.


	3. Three

            Lyra doesn’t say much to him, and Fenris finds himself simultaneously grateful for and annoyed by that fact. In his years in Hawke’s company, he has so often found himself on the receiving end of idle chatter during times of travel—before, it had grated on him; now, the sudden absence of noise makes him uneasy.

            He cuts a glance over at her to make sure he hasn’t lost her.

            She trails along just behind him, not so close that the two of them will touch, but close enough that one of them could easily reach out and grab the other in an emergency. Her hand idly traces the scar on her arm. It’s raised and red—though whether that’s a reaction to the magic the slavers had used or early signs of infection, he isn’t sure.

            “Are you in pain?” he asks. Not that he would have the first idea of what to do should she answer in the affirmative.

            She shakes her head. “Not anymore, no,” she says.

            They lapse into quiet again.

She has told him very little—only her name, really, and only after several days of him referring to her solely as “woman.” Varric had suggested that she might tell him more with some coaxing.

But coaxing isn’t Fenris’s strong point.

He glances over his shoulder at her again. She is idly tugging at a strand of her hair as she trails along behind him. It is something, he has noticed, that she does when he is tired or anxious. He knows that she has slept—and he made sure that sleep was uninterrupted. He slows his pace.

She stops a few steps behind him. When his eyes find her, her eyebrows are raised in question.

A moment of quiet passes.

“What?” she prompts.

He heaves a breath. “You are… upset,” he says. He means for it to sound like a statement, but it doesn’t, quite. There is too much of an upturn in his voice.

Confusion crosses her face. It lingers only briefly before settling into something softer. Warmer. Fenris reminds himself to keep his hold on her eyes.

She blinks a few times, wrapping her arms around herself and taking a deep breath.

“They’ve left us alone for a few days,” she says.

He nods. “They have.”

She catches her bottom lip between her teeth. Her hand almost invisibly twitches towards the scar that lines her arm. “Maybe they gave up?” she suggests. “Maybe they decided I was more trouble than it’s worth?”

Fenris lets loose a humorless laugh. “Unlikely,” he says. He has not told her about the years that some of these same slavers had been pursuing him, chasing him for nearly a decade. “They do not give up so easily.”

Blue eyes turn away from him. She is tugging at her hair again—more urgently.

He wants to scoff at her—could she truly believe that the slavers would go through the trouble of marking her and _not_ bring her back to the Imperium?—but instead his lips pinch together and shakes his head. She has not lived his life, he has to remind himself. She is alone and scared and unfamiliar with what it is like to be pursued.

“I did not wish to further upset you,” he says slowly. Carefully. He is unused to dealing with people that aren’t Hawke and his compatriots, and he is fairly certain that the gruffness he would use with them will send Lyra running. “But you are better served by knowing the truth of it.”

She does not look at him, but she nods. Fenris thinks that’s probably as much as he can ask for. He starts down the path again.

After a time, her voice breaks the quiet.

“Why me?”

His shoulders tense. He wonders for a moment if she can see his discomfort.

“All the people fleeing the city,” she says, “all of the people they _caught_. Why did they do this to me?”

Her eyes are on him when he turns to her. She is expectant—she wants an answer, thinks he has one.

He’s not sure what to tell her. Even if he knew for certain why they wanted her—and there are a hundred reasons they might—he’s not sure that he would want to see the look on her face when she realizes the danger she’s in, the reason he is willing to help her escape across the sea.

“Does it matter?” he says.

She doesn’t answer.

Fenris sighs. “We are not far from the coast,” he says. “With luck, Varric’s information will be correct.”

He hears a huff of breath behind him, but she does not speak.

He leads on.

* * *

Sea air is her favorite smell. It ranks even above the scent of stale ale, sweat, and piss that always lingered in the Hanged Man, that scent that once felt like home.

If asked, Isabella says that she has not thought of the Hanged Man, of Kirkwall, in years.

But she is prone to lying. She always has been.

The promise of a ship, the smell of sea-salt air had tempted her away from Kirkwall. She wouldn’t—couldn’t—go back, but she never gets too far away.

Fortunate for Merrill, Isabella thinks. No one else is likely to look at a crowd of scared elves and merely shrug their shoulders and gesture the group aboard.

The ship floats idly in the harbor. She and her captain are fit to depart, but she decides at the last minute to give her crew a night ashore. She smiles to herself at the fact that her men are happy and enjoying themselves—and staring at breasts that aren’t hers.

She is just beginning to entertain the notion of going ashore and seeking company for the night herself when she barely hears a sound that doesn’t fit among the intimately familiar noises of a docked ship. Her hand drifts leisurely in the direction of her dagger, and she only barely squints her eyes at the darkness.

A shadow lands beside her; her daggers are drawn, slashed, deflected as she tries to land her eyes on the intruder.

She raises an eyebrow. There are not many faster than she, and she’s met most of them.

She relaxes against the side of her ship, legs crossing and arms draped across the railing.

“That rat Varric sold me out,” she says, without venom. “Might’ve known he would sooner or later.”

The other is still in half-shadow. Isabella’s lips twitch into a frown.

“Did Hawke send you after me?” she asks. She knows—she thinks; he is not like her and she still isn’t sure what exactly that means—that Hawke would do no such thing, but her men will return sooner or later, and she doesn’t want to explain more of her past than is necessary.

“Hawke is on the run,” a delicious voice answers. “You would know that, if you had not betrayed him.”

She winces. It is a blow that she expects, but it stings nonetheless.

“He’s alright, though?” she asks. She wants to sound nonchalant. The silence that meets her question makes her think she doesn’t.

“As far as I know,” the voice answers at length.

“Of course he is,” Isabella says, half to herself.

The other shifts. She can see him now, his lanky form outlined by moonlight. He is beautiful.

He is also not alone.

The woman beside him is so still and so quiet that Isabella thinks for a moment that she has imagined another presence.

But as the two move towards the pool of torchlight in which Isabella stands, the pirate sees the elf’s companion—a small slip of a thing that looks as though she’s seen a hellish few days.

Considering that the girl is traveling alone with Fenris and that the two are in a desperate enough situation that they were willing to track her down, Isabella thinks that the look likely reflects the reality.

There are a thousand questions that she wants to ask. She raises an eyebrow, and turns her gaze to the girl.

“Made a friend, Fenris?” she asks.

She watches him study her for a moment. She realizes, with more of a pang than she would have expected, that he is trying to decide if he can trust her.

He seems to decide that he can—or that he has no other choice; she can’t really tell. He takes hold of his companion’s wrist and pulls her forward, directing Isabella’s attention to the long scar lining the girl’s arm. She meets Fenris’s stare and understands.

“Oh, sweet thing,” she coos, taking the girl’s arm in her hand. “You have gotten in trouble.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, you didn't have to wait seven months this time.
> 
> The first part of this chapter was going to be part two, but this is apparently where it wanted to be, so whatever.
> 
> I love Isabella.
> 
> Next time: Everybody is on a boat; Isabella is delightful.


	4. Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lyra is not good at boats. Slavers attack. Merrill's got it together.

          The pitching and tossing of a ship at sea is a new sensation to Lyra, and one to which she does not easily adjust. She spends the first half of the journey curled up on pillows, her head resting in Isabela’s lap as the pirate queen strokes a hand through her hair.

          Fenris is surprised at the pirate’s affection at first. Isabela has always struck him as kind only when she stands to benefit, and Lyra can offer her nothing. But he recalls the playful jibes she once shared with Hawke’s sister and the way she frequently volunteered herself to keep the blood mage company.

            He perhaps doesn’t understand the pirate as well as he thinks. Whatever her motivations, Isabela keeps a watchful eye on the girl, and he is thankful.

            On the days when Lyra is not overcome with seasickness, Isabela teaches the girl how to hold a knife, how to strike with speed and precision. Lyra lacks Isabela’s skill and grace, but she learns.

            “Probably not enough to win a fight yet,” Isabela tells Fenris. “But enough to stay alive to get away.”

            Fenris realizes late in the journey, that he has never heard Lyra laugh. It is not a thought that enters his mind until he finds her on one of her worse days sprawled on pillow next to Isabela with a wide smile spread across her face, clutching her stomach.

            Isabela is midway through a story, a lazy smirk pulling at her lips as her finger traces nonsense patterns on Lyra’s shoulder.

            “So he stands there, trousers ‘round his ankles and he _cannot_ figure out why the assassin is laughing.”

            The sound bubbles up from Lyra’s throat. She throws her head back, her back arching as the laugh moves through her.

            The sound, the image, stirs something warm in him. He’s not sure what to do with it. He shifts his weight with discomfort. Isabela’s eyes find him.

            “Ah, but your babysitter is here to spoil the fun,” the pirate says with mirth. “Need something?”

            Lyra rolls onto her side to look at him, her brows raised in question.

            “I just—I” he has to pause to collect his thoughts. Isabela’s red lips are pulled to one side in a smirk as she watched him fumble. “I wished to see if you were well,” Fenris says at last. “The crew say we are not far from shore.”

            The mirth that lit up her face a moment before is gone, replaced by a shadow. Her hand drifts to her arm, to the scar.

            “Just when you were starting to get your sea legs,” Isabela sighs. She speaks to Lyra, but her eyes remain on Fenris. There is a thought dancing behind them that the elf can almost see.

            Slowly, Lyra pulls herself upright. She moves less woozily than before, but Isabela’s hand is nonetheless hovering at the ready.

            “Will they be there?” she asks.

            “I don’t know,” Fenris answers. “Trade is more difficult in Ferelden. They may be there, but in smaller numbers. Or, if the Circles in Fereleden have rebelled, they could move with more ease.”

            Lyra is silent.

            “Cheer up, kitten,” Isabela says, rubbing a soothing hand on Lyra’s back. “It’s not like you’ll be going off alone. Your babysitter and I will both be with you.”

            Fenris raises an eyebrow. “You plan to go with us?”

            Isabela gives a half-shrug—an expression that, Fenris suspects, she has spent many years artfully perfecting. “Someone’s got to teach her how to hold a dagger properly.” She punctuates her statement with a wink and a slow grin, another expression that he’s seen her wield as a weapon.

            Fenris is still not sure how much he trusts the pirate. She is, in his mind, still the woman that ran when Hawke needed her. But Lyra seems to relax somewhat at the information, so he nods his acquiescence.

            When Lyra meets his eyes again, the shadow is not gone but has receded. “Thank you,” she says. Her voice is a quiet birdsong; it warms him, reminds him of half-recalled images of warm gardens and bright laughter.

            He nods once more before turning on his heel and leaving the room.

* * *

            He feels the sting of the dagger piercing his side the moment he allows his eyes to wander. He loosed a roar of frustration as his blade sliced its way through the three slavers that had separated him from Lyra and Isabela.

            Isabela is at his side; then she’s not. The pirate is beside Lyra before the elven girl even realizes that she was gone. Fenris barely sees a flash of white and blue sink a dagger into the kidney of a man who very nearly caused Lyra to back into another slaver’s blade.

            He moves to station himself close to Lyra—close enough to where he can keep her from most of the fighting. The terrain slows his movements, and the slavers seem to deem him a threat. Their warriors focus on him, pushing him away from the two women.

            Isabela is excellent; she turns and dances between the slavers, her daggers finding weak points and exploiting them. She manages to keep the slavers mostly occupied with trying to dodge her, trying to take her down.

            But she cannot stop all of them.

            Lyra is slow to notice the rogue that has slipped past the wall that Isabela has created with her attacks. She sees the dagger poised to attack only moments before the slaver strikes.

            For a moment, Fenris wonders if this is what all of his work comes to. His time with Hawke had made him think that he is able to help people—but perhaps the success of the past was due to Hawke’s skill.

            Perhaps, on his own, Fenris is nothing more than a bitter ex-slave incapable of helping anyone.

            Lyra drops to the ground. Fenris feels a twist of guilt and anger in his gut. The men that are pushing him away are cut down in a swing. He is closing the distance between himself and Lyra’s body before the corpses fall to the ground.

            The man that struck Lyra has a moment to look triumphant before the blade of a dagger bursts through his chest.

            Isabela, Fenris thinks at first—but he sees her flitting between a trio of fighters a few feet away. She is too occupied; has not yet noticed the man that made it past her.

            The stabbed man topples forward, blood pouring from the wound in his chest. Lyra, groaning, stumbles to her feet. She braces her hands on her knees, trying to get her bearings.

            The last of the slavers fall. Isabela swears.

            “Oh, Maker,” Lyra breaths. She has righted herself, but she is pale, trembling.

            Fenris and Isabela are both at her side in an instant. The pirate wraps an arm around Lyra’s shoulder while Fenris frees the dagger from the slaver’s corpse.

            “I didn’t mean to—I’m going to be sick,” Lyra says. And she is. She turns from the body and falls to her knees. Isabela smooths the elven woman’s hair out of her face as she heaves onto the grass.

            Fenris wipes the blood off of the dagger with the dead slavers clothes. Once the retching stops and Isabela helps Lyra right herself, Fenris offers the blade to Lyra.

            She stares at it for several long minutes, as though horrified.

            “You did only what had to be done,” Fenris assures her in a low voice. There must have been a point, he thinks, when taking a life was new and frightening to him—but, of course, he can’t remember it. He does not understand her revulsion, not really. He does not relish killing, but understands its necessity.

            Lyra’s life has been kind. She has not had to kill or be killed.

            “He’d have killed you, sweet thing,” Isabela agrees. “Or worse. Better him than you.”

            Lyra does not say anything. She takes the dagger from Fenris and returns it to its sheath. Her eyes linger on the dead slaver.

            Fenris watches her for a moment, trying to understand what she must be feeling.

            He sighes. “We should move on.”

* * *

            It’s not a Dalish camp. Not quite.

            There are no aravels, no statues. No vallaslin-lined faces. No stories about the Creators or Halamshiral being told around the fire.

            But the camp is full of elves. They’re not the People, not as her clan would have defined them, but they are _here_. They are _alive_. And, for the moment, they are safe.

            For Merrill, that is good enough.

            The smell of meat cooking fills the camp. The elves have eaten well since leaving Kirkwall. Hunting is cheaper than buying meat, and some of their group have proven to be adept at tracking and catching prey.

            Merrill smiles to herself. It is not an easy life—the traveling, the running, settling disputes that arise between those that follow her—the work is wearing. But, as she watches the other elves talk and laugh and manage the day-to-day necessaries of the camp, she is happy. In a way that she hasn’t been since the loss of her clan.

            Someone at the edge of the camp is shouting. Merrill can’t make out the words, but the tone is enough to tell her that the situation needs her attention. She takes a deep breath, grabbing her staff from where it leans against the trunk of a tree, and jogs over to the camp edge.

            “What’s this? What’s going on?” she asks.

            One of the elves, a young man she knows from the Alienage, one she knows to have a short temper answers. “Intruders. Musta followed us. We’ve gotta do something, Merrill.”

            He gestures with his sword towards the darkness. Merrill’s eyes can pick out movement in the shadows. Two people, maybe three moving towards the camp.

            Merrill gives a sharp nod. “Right,” she says. “You go on back in the camp. I’ll see what they want.”

            “But—“

            “Go back to the camp,” Merrill repeats. The levity and music is gone from her tone. He does not question her again.

            Merrill waits until she sees him disappear into the crowd around the central fire before turning back to the newcomers. She tightens her grip around her staff and sets her features in the steeliest expression that she can manage. Sparing only a brief backwards glance at the people she’s promised to protect, she marches into the woods to meet the intruders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't know why my original closing note keeps posting at the end of all of my chapters. I'll figure out what I did wrong at some point.
> 
> Also, I was apparently spelling Isabela's name wrong?
> 
> The ending point for this chapter kept changing. But I think I like where it ended up.
> 
> Thanks for reading.


	5. Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lyra meets Merrill. Merrill chats. Magic doings are soon to happen.

The woods get no more welcoming as the group ventures further in, though the slavers do not pursue them further. They won’t want to face the whole camp, Fenris says. As powerful as they are, they’re still cautious—and they won’t want to risk killing all too many of the elves in the camp. Why destroy more valuable merchandise?

That means they will be waiting on the other side, Fenris explains, hoping to catch them when they feel secure.

Lyra, for her part, is doubtful that she will feel secure again. She can still smell the blood of the man she killed, feel it coating her hands in hot, slick red. Her knees grow weak at the memory; she thinks she will be sick again.

She can feel Fenris watching her. He sees her faltering, she thinks, though she doesn’t know what he makes of it. He has been patient, certainly. Not as open with his friendship as Isabela has been with hers, but still kind. She meets his eyes.

His hand brushes against the small of her back. It’s the second time he’s ever touched her. It’s a warm feeling—almost uncomfortably so; she thinks that has something to do with the blue-white markings that trace his body that he doesn’t talk about. His hand moves almost before she is aware of its presence, but the contact steadies her. She keeps moving.

The forest is overgrown. As far as Lyra can tell, no one has been there.

But Fenris winds his way through the forest with ease. He seems to be able to pick out a trail. Greenery crushed by feet, snapped twigs, scrapes where crates have slid against tree trunks. Before long, the sounds of a camp reach their ears and the distant glow of a fire grows visible.

Fenris holds up a hand to stop their progress.

He glances to Isabela and nods towards the camp.

The pirate squints into the semi-dark. “Scouts,” she says after a moment. “Two of them. Running back into the camp, from the look of it.”

“Let them,” Fenris said. “They have been running from the same people we have. Let them come to us.”

Fenris and Isabela both relax, Isabela leaning cross-legged against a tree and Fenris lowering to a squat. Lyra can’t keep still. She paces through the greenery, her fingers twitching in anxiety.

“Hello?” a voice she doesn’t recognize calls. It has a musical timbre—a sweetness that Lyra doesn’t think she’s ever heard. “What are you doing? These people have harmed no one and—Isabela is that you?”

The pirate smiles and wiggles her fingers. “Hello, kitten. Missed you.”

The new voice squeals, and a lanky form launches itself towards Isabela.

Lyra watches the display, bemused. The lanky form is an elf. Lyra looks to Fenris for an answer.

“Merrill,” he says simply.

The elf jumps away from Isabela. She turns her head, seeming to notice Fenris and Lyra for the first time. Great green eyes widen at them.

“Fenris?” the elf—Merrill—asks. Her hand twitches around the ornate staff that she carries. “What are you doing here? What happened to Hawke? He’s not hurt, is he? Weren’t you with him? I haven’t heard anything, and Varric’s gone quiet and—“

“Breathe, kitten,” Isabela says.

“I’m sorry,” Merrill says. “It’s just—what are you doing here?”

Isabela gestures for Fenris to answer.

“We need a mage,” Fenris says without preamble.

Merrill blinks at him owlishly—Lyra imagines that the elf does most things owlishly. “You were with Hawke,” Merrill insists. “You had Anders. Why come find me? You don’t even like me.”

Fenris exhales sharply through his nose. Isabela leans against the trunk of a tree, clearly finding the exchange amusing and offering no help.

“Anders could not do the magic we needed,” Fernis says. Lyra can hear frustration in his tone. She’s not seen him lose his patience; she is not sure it’s something she’d want to see.

Merrill looks properly at Lyra for the first time. “Oh, hello,” she says, taking a few steps towards Lyra. “You seem familiar. Who are you?”

“Lyra,” she answers. “You used to live in the alienage in Kirkwall.”

Merrill tilts her head in thought. “Yes. I’m sorry, I don’t recognize you. Not surprising, I guess, so many people in that little space always running around. Lucky you were able to get out of the city. Wouldn’t want to be stuck in Kirkwall now. I mean, not that it was perfect before, but there were nice things about it. So many people and so much space—I’d only just got to where I didn’t need twine to help me find my way.”

Merrill chats throughout the walk back to the camp proper. Lyra only half-listens. The dark-haired elf says so many words with nary a breath between them; the conversation is more of a comforting soft buzz than any clear narrative.

By the time they reach the camp, Lyra is half drowsing. She allows Merrill to lead her to a spot by the fire. The group of them lower themselves to the ground.

“So, tell me what’s wrong?” Merrill says, her owlish eyes drifting between the other three. “What magic is it Anders couldn’t do?”

Lyra’s eyes flicker to Fenris. He gives her the slightest of nods and she stretches out her arm, displaying the still-red scar that runs along her forearm.

Merrill’s eyebrows shoot up.

“When I was running from the city,” Lyra says, “I ran into a group of slavers, magisters, I guess. They—I don’t know. They did something. A spell. Blood magic. Fenris says they’re using it to track me.”

Merrill wraps her long fingers around Lyra’s arm, examining the scar and muttering to herself. Lyra feels the slightest tingling burn along the mark as the woman’s fingers trace it.

“A tracking spell,” Merrill confirms. “We’ll want to get this taken care of quickly. Don’t want to lead them here.” “You can undo it?” Lyra asks. “Yes,” Merrill says. “Well, maybe. It’s complicated magic. Tevinter magic is largely based on the People’s old magics, but…it’s altered. The spirit of it changes. I’m not sure if I can do it properly.”

Lyra lets out a shaky breath as she pulls her arm back towards her body. A cold wave of terror slips through her body. She thinks she might be shaking.

Once again, Fenris’s hand barely brushes her.

“You will try,” Fenris says. “Please.”

“Oh,” Merrill’s eyes go impossibly wide. “I—yes. Of course I will,” she says.

Merrill grabs both of Lyra’s hands and squeezes them with affection. It’s surprising but comforting. Lyra feels the panic recede, if only slightly.

“Don’t worry,” Merrill says. “The magic is tricky, but I’ll figure it out. We’ll free you from this. We will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mmmmmm, I'm not happy with it, but there it is. Not sure how much longer this will be--two or three chapters, maybe? We'll see.
> 
> Thanks for reading.


	6. Six

The first blast is what wakes them.

Fenris had said that the slavers would not want to enter the camp—he is correct, but that doesn’t stop them from attacking. They don’t hit the tents, the people, but the fire makes the elves scatter and draws them into a panic.

Merrill tries to call to them, tries to calm them, but the flames have stirred up the fears that they had only just begun to overcome.

The tent on the edge near the fortifications, the one Merrill had been using to house the young and the sick, bursts into flame.

Her grip on her staff tightens. She can’t keep her people calm, so she’ll do what she knows she _can_.

Branches break free from the ground and writhe skyward. They bend away from the People, stretching unnaturally to avoid them.

The slavers are not so lucky. Spike-sharp limbs push their way through flesh and muscle; tug the screaming slavers groundward.

Now the slavers scream. The fires flicker out as the power that sparks them fades. The branches bury themselves underground, taking what remains of the impaled slavers with them.

The wave of panic does not wash out entirely. There are still shouts, people calling for their families—things are not settled. But the sense of safety begins to return.

Merrill lowers her staff. The scowl that crosses her face when she turned her power on the slavers vanishes, replaced by wide-eyed concern.

As Merrill flits between pockets of shaken elves, Lyra seeks out Fenris.

The fight is over, but Fenris’s body remains tense; the white-blue lines of lyrium on his skin still pulse with a faint glow.

He senses Lyra’s approach. “There’s no time,” he says through gritted teeth. “We take the mage and leave. She can rejoin her people once she’s undone the spell.”

Lyra holds up her hands in what she hopes is a placating manner. “She won’t let us take her,” Lyra says. “Do you see what she did when she though they’d hurt her people? She’s not going to let you just take her away.”

The glow of the lyrium marks flares hotly. Lyra takes a step back.

He doesn’t lose his temper, doesn’t snap at her—but she can see the effort that it takes him. “Something has to be done,” he says.

“With that, I agree,” Lyra sighs.

As Merrill completes her rounds, Isabela steps from the shadows.

“No more of them tonight,” the pirate queen says. “And even if there were more, they might think twice now Kitten’s show her claws.”

Merrill returns to them, lips pulled into a frown. She says nothing, but reaches for Lyra’s arm.

“I can undo this,” she says after several long, quiet minutes. “I can. But not here. I won’t draw these people into more danger.”

“Come with us, then,” Isabela suggests. “Simplest solution.”

Merrill is already shaking her head. “They won’t be safe if I leave,” she says. “They barely feel safe with me. I can’t abandon them. I won’t lose another clan.”

There’s a fierceness to Merrill’s eyes that catches Lyra by surprise. The elf has proven herself capable, certainly, but lacking Fenris’s fire and Isabela’s calculating wit. Fenris and Isabela are dangerous; Lyra has known this since meeting them. It is not until she sees the set of the elf’s jaw that she understands that Merrill is dangerous, too.

“Go further into Ferelden,” Merrill says. “To Highever, that’s the nearest city. The magisters will stay away from there.”

“We thought they’d stay away from here,” Lyra says. She grabs at her elbows, crossing her arms against her chest, trying to stop from flying to pieces. “What’s to stop them going into Highever?”

“Highever,” Isabela mutters. “Didn’t Anders mention Highever? Mention it all the time, even?”

Merrill nods. “It’s where the hero of Ferelden is from—the warden that stopped the Blight,” she says. “Anders knew her. Or said he knew her. Either way, Highever should be safe. Go there. I’ll lead the elves. Highever’s friendly to the Dalish; maybe I can get them to a clan resting nearby. And then I’ll find you in the city. We’ll get the curse undone.”

“And then it’s just a matter of fighting our way past the slavers on the way out,” Isabela grins. “Sounds exciting.”

Fenris is quiet, his fist clenching and unclenching. Lyra sees the motion out of the corner of her eye and thinks she understands. They have avoided cities since the time he and his companions first found her. She is not entirely sure why—she knows he has been hunted before, that his companions were being hunted still. Something about cities makes him twitch.

“Fenris?” she asks. Her voice is soft.

He meets her eyes for a moment. She can see him thinking. For as guarded as he is, his pondering moods are always obvious. He is searching for another solution.

He exhales through his nose. “It seems there is no other option,” he says at length. “Do you know where we can go in Highever?” he asks Merrill. “Anyone who will offer us safe haven?”

The elf taps her chin with a long finger, her bottom lip poking out in a pout. “Hmm, maybe,” she says. “Varric’s told me about an elf he and Hawke met that might be in Highever. A friend of the warden’s. Maybe he can help?”

Isabela scoffs. “How that dwarf manages to know everything, sitting in that little room in the Hanged Man.”

“How do we find him?” Fenris asks.

Merrill shakes her head. “From what Varric said, you don’t. Just say you’re looking for him and he finds you.”

“Course set, then,” Isabela says. “Right?”

“But not tonight,” Merrill says, relaxing into a hip. “We should be able to manage one night’s peace. Get some rest. Getting to Highever might not be an easy trip.”

The elf pats Lyra on the shoulder and gives Isabela and quick hug before disappearing into the camp again. Isabela inclines her head at Fenris and Lyra with a grin before following.

“Highever,” Lyra says when the elf and the pirate are two dark pinpricks near the fire.

“Highever,” Fenris confirms. “With luck, this will be resolved soon.”

“And then what?” Lyra asks.

He blinks at her. “I…am not certain.” He rubs his forehead with the heel of his hand. “It has been some time since determining what is next has fallen to me,” he says with some chagrin.

Lyra gives him something like a smile, a quiet, melancholy thing, and rests a feather-light hand on his shoulder. She thinks that it is the first time she has touched him. The jolt that travels through him tells her she is right.

“There’s time to figure it out,” she says. “It’s a few days to Highever.” Her hand slides away as she moves back to the camp, her form cast in silhouette in the firelight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I hadn't planned on Zevran showing up in this, but....
> 
> Well, Zevran.
> 
> Merrill is so often portrayed as a cupcake, and she is, but I like to remember that she can tear shit up if properly motivated--and a threat to her people would be A + motivation.
> 
> The past couple of chapters have been rough. I feel good about writing the next ones, though.
> 
> Thanks for reading.


	7. Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zevran? Zevran.

Whatever hesitations Lyra initially had about killing begin to deteriorate as the trio approaches Highever. She is fairly certain that, prior to this ordeal, she had never raised a hand to anyone. There is a part of her that wants to laugh at that as she sinks the dagger Isabela gave her into the gut of an attacking slaver.

Her form has improved, or so Isabela says.

Whether that is true or not, Lyra has found more use for the weapon in recent days.

The losses suffered at Merrill’s camp do not deter the slavers—if anything, they come after the group with more aggression.

Lyra doesn’t think she has seen as much blood in her life as she has in the last week. And, considering that she grew up in Kirkwall’s Alienage, that’s saying quite a lot.

She almost misses the slaver that slips out of the shadow’s behind her, but Fenris lets loose a war cry that causes the attacker to stumble. Lyra takes the opportunity and slashes the dagger across the slaver’s throat. The wound gushes, coating her in red.

It says something about the turn her life has taken that she merely blinks in response.

“That’s the last of them, I think,” Isabela says, sheathing her daggers. “Oh, sweet thing, you’re a mess,” she half-laughs when she sees the state Lyra is in.

Lyra shrugs, trying to wipe away what of the mess she can. As Isabela goes about looting the bodies, the elven woman makes eye contact with Fenris. She says nothing, but he seems to read her thanks on her face. He acknowledges her with a minute incline of his head before plunging forward.

It is roughly four days from the spot where Merrill’s elves camp to Highever. When the teyrnir becomes visible through the foliage, Lyra wants to let out a cheer. She knows nothing of the area beyond what the others have told her, but it must be better than the woods, the ship, the Alienage.

The city proper is a swarm of activity when they reach it. It is the only place Lyra has seen in Ferelden that bears no scars from the Blight or the would-be civil war. The new teyrn is to thank, so Isabela says. He and his sister pour themselves into the area.

The teyrn’s sister. The Hero of Ferelden. There seem to be whispers about her everywhere they turn. Warden Cousland draws reverent praise from those she saved.

But there is less flattering talk about her, and this is what Isabela latches on to.

“Apparently our friend, the Warden, has a weakness for elves and foreigners,” the pirate drawls the night after their arrival. “I’ve been hearing all about her scandalous Antivan lover.”

“What does who she’s sleeping with have to do with us?” Lyra asks.

Isabela raises a shoulder in a half-shrug. “He just sounds familiar, that’s all.”

* * *

 

 He knows someone has been asking about him. At first he ignores it—the talk is nothing new. He is the very visible, very foreign lover of the very visible, very popular hero of Ferelden. People are always trying to catch a glimpse of him.

But then he hears rumor of a Rivaini woman ghosting through the town asking about an elf that’s close to the warden, saying that she needs his aid for a woman in trouble.

The description of the Rivaini woman catches his ear. A boisterous woman that carries the sea with her.

He smirks to himself.

Perhaps this time he _will_ pay attention to the talk.

* * *

 

 “It’s no good,” Lyra says, slumping into a chair at the inn where they’ve made their rest.

“Oh, don’t say that, sweet thing,” Isabela says as she waves the barkeep over. “I think I know who we’re looking for. Trust me, we’ll find him.”

Lyra props her arms up on the table and buries her face in them, groaning. Fenris is not so dramatic in his expression of exhaustion, but he sits a little more heavily than he might have otherwise and his eyes half-close as leans against the back of the chair.

The pirate laughs and orders a round of ales.

“And one more to that, will you?” a voice that Lyra doesn’t recognize says.

“Zevran!” Isabela exclaims. “I knew it!”

Lyra raises her head from her arms. Isabela is laughing, her chair tilted back on two legs. Lyra’s eyes move from the pirate’s face to the newcomer to their table.

He is slight—shorter, Lyra thinks, than Isabella—but broad shouldered. She can’t make out his face. It’s mostly hidden by the shadow cast by the hood of his cloak. Lyra can just barely see a razor-sharp smile cutting across his face.

“Always a pleasure, Isabela,” the new arrival purrs. Something in his voice makes color rise to Lyra’s face. Judging by his smile, the man notices. “You’ve made such lovely friends.”

Lyra’s face reddens; Fenris’s lips twitch into a frown.

Isabela clicks her tongue and takes a playful swipe at the man. “Took you long enough to find us.”

“Ah, a man such as myself catches so many eyes,” the man says with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I couldn’t possibly address everyone that seeks my attention. I have to be selective, you understand.”

He turns his attention to Lyra, and she fights not to shrink away from him.

“I assume that it is not Isabela that requires my assistance,” he says.

Lyra nods.

The man and Isabela share a glance. Whatever he sees in Isabela’s face seems to satisfy him. He pulls back the hood.

He is all bronze and gold and beauty. Lyra can feel her blush intensify.

The smile he throws her way is devastating. He reaches across the table to her and places his hand on hers.

“Tell me what has happened, _bella_ ,” he says. “Let’s see if I can help you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh wow, this is short and it took a long time.
> 
> So I've spent the last month or so revising my book, which is why I've been away. But the draft is off with a reader now, so I can get back to this. Thanks for being patient. Kisses.


	8. Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quiet moments before the ritual.

Zevran can help, as it turns out. There’s nowhere for Merrill’s clan in Highever proper, but there is a bit of the Teyrn’s estate that the guards don’t see from their patrol routes. It’s a cramped space, squeezed between a low border wall and several rows of trees, but Zevran assures them that they will be safe. He lets slide privately to Isabella that the Warden is aware of the group’s presence and, if nothing else, they have another pair of watchful eyes keeping a look out.

Merrill brings her alienage clan in a handful at a time, sneaking them onto the property. It will take several trips, she tells them, and she won’t perform the spell they need until the entire clan is safely ensconced.

The Antivan himself elects not to stay with the hodge-podge clan.

“I will be more useful to you out there,” he says with a vague gesture towards the other side of the wall. “With luck I will find the ones following you before they can do any harm.”

Zevran’s lips are half-quirked into a smile as he bids them farewell. The attention makes color rise to Lyra’s face. She is, in some ways, glad to see the Antivan leave. His overtly affectionate and genial manner are, though not necessarily unwelcome, unfamiliar. 

When he is gone, she steps back to the knot of terrified elves. She seeks out Fenris among them, sitting rather apart from the rest of the elves with his back resting against the trunk of one of the wide trees. She picks her way over to him.

He isn’t looking at her when she approaches. She waits for him to meet her eyes. When he does, he inclines his head, gesturing for her to sit down.

“Sounds like Merrill will have the last few groups over before morning,” Lyra says as she folds her arms around her knees. 

Fenris nods. “Perhaps soon this ordeal will be over.”

Lyra lets out a long breath. She has not, until now, allowed herself to ponder an end to this trial—life in Kirkwall made her superstitious; to imagine success seems to ensure failure.

But with the aid of Fenris and Isabela and Merrill and now Zevran and the Warden, she finds it difficult to suppress her optimism.

She feels the itch of his eyes on her and offers Fenris a weak smile.

“What will you do?” she asks. At his baffled expression, she clarifies, “When this is over. When I’m safe.”

A frown tugs at his lips. “I’m not sure,” he admits. “It will be the first time that I have had nothing to run from.”

They lapse into a thoughtful silence. Lyra chews on her bottom lip, staring out at the clan as the elves busy themselves with setting up camp. She sees the tension behind the activity—they work so that they don’t have to think about the slavers, about the fighting and the blood, both in Ferelden and Kirkwall. It’s a tactic with which she is familiar but that she feels no impulse towards now.

She leans back onto the grass. For the first time since encountering the slavers, she sleeps peacefully.

..O.O..

She wakes to the sound of voices whispering above her.

“—more of them than we might have thought,” Zevran’s voice says. The music that had inhabited it before is not quite gone but is certainly subdued. “They seem to have taken your friend’s continued escape personally.”

“They take every escape personally,” Fenris says. 

“Even so,” Zevran says, undeterred. 

Merrill says something in elvhen. She sounds panicked, but she always sounds a little panicked. “They won’t follow us, will they?”

“Not if the Warden has her way,” Zevran says. “Still, it might be wise to perform this ritual sooner than later.”

“My people—“ Merrill says.

Lyra can almost see Isabela’s arms wrap around Merrill’s thin shoulders. “We’ll keep them safe, kitten,” the pirate comforts.

Merrill’s watery thanks is the last thing that Lyra hears before the conversation drifts away.

She sits up when the voices fade. The comfort, the bright outlook that had been wrapping its way around her heart shriveled to ash. 

A thick breath chokes its way out of her. She claps her hands over her mouth, willing herself to stifle the sob that threatened to escape.

The weight of a hand on her shoulder makes her jump. She twitches away from the touch, her eyes turning wildly in an attempt to catch sight of the source of the contact.

Fenris holds his hands up where she can see them as he kneels beside her.

He says nothing as he sits next to her, watching as she takes breath after shuttering breath.

When her breathing at last calms—minutes or hours later, she’s not sure—he offers her his hand.

She grips it tightly in her own. The contact shoots warmth through her veins.

He still says nothing, but gives her hand a gentle squeeze.

She doesn’t feel better, not entirely, but a little sprig of hope curls its way out of the ashes of her optimism.

She doesn’t sleep well through the rest of the night, but, with Fenris’s hand clutched loosely in hers, she does sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, it's been a minute. 
> 
> Part of the delay has been due to getting a publishing contract which is such a weird thing and I still don't really believe that it happened? So that's been some work. Check here if you want updates on that: https://www.facebook.com/AuthorASCrowder or check my blog at authorascrowder.blogspot.com
> 
> Part of it has also been working on a draft of the next thing. Again, see links above for updates.
> 
> And part of the delay is that I don't have a plan--which is super weird for me, because usually my outlines have outlines. 
> 
> Anyway, I'm switching gears to fanfic for a while because I need a break from novels but also need to keep writing, so there should be more updates in the next weeks. Also, I'm about to write some pieces that focus on my cannon Hawke, so that should be fun.
> 
> Thanks for putting up with me.


	9. Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's fire. And a warden. And a ritual.

She wakes to the smell of smoke. Yellow orange flames claw at the corner of her vision. The sight spurs her into action. She shoots up from the ground and rushes in the direction of shouting voices.

A woman in plate armor that Lyra doesn’t recognize is in the thick of the action, her clear bell of a voice issuing orders at the horde of scattering, frightened elves that they seem almost compelled to follow.

She meets Lyra’s eyes from across the yard and rushes in her direction, shouting another set of orders over her shoulder as she jogs.

“You’d be the one they’re hunting, then,” the woman says. It’s not a question, but Lyra nods nonetheless. “You had better come with me. We’re going to have to move faster than we thought.”

The woman wraps her hand around Lyra’s elbow and pulls her along as she crosses the yard once again.

“Warden Cousland!” someone shouts.

She raises her free hand to acknowledge the greeting. “Keep moving, lads,” she calls.

The fire provides Lyra her first opportunity to properly examine the woman that led her through the chaos. She is tall—impossibly so—and broad shouldered. Her tan skin almost glows in the firelight. A scar traces its way down the right side of her face, a gift, Lyra knows from the talk she’s heard in the town, from the archdemon. Red gold hair is coiled into a tight knot on the crown of her head.

Lyra has never given much thought to what a Blight-queller might look like, but she reckons that Warden Cousland fits the bill.

In the dancing firelight, Lyra can make out a set of familiar silhouettes. One of them, short and broad shouldered shifts as they approach. Lyra thinks she sees the ghost of a grin pass over the warden’s features.

Zevran is at Cousland’s side in an instant, falling into step with her as she approaches the fire.

“The evacuation?” Coulsland asks.

“Underway,” Zevran replies. “Though some of your brother’s subjects are not so pleased.”

“They’ll manage,” Cousland says. There is a steel in her voice that makes Lyra almost pity the subjects in question.

“Indeed,” Zevran says, amusement curling his voice. “For now, they don’t fight. Isabela’s friend says she is nearly ready to perform the ritual. If you have a moment, you should speak with her.”

Warden Cousland grumbled her assent. She casts a sidelong glance at Zevran. “Where will you be?” she asks. “Out of sight and far off?”

The elf catches the warden’s hand in his and brings it to his lips. “Not far, amora,” he says, a soft smile spreading across his features. “Never far.”

He leans up to press a kiss against the warden’s jaw before melding into the shadows and vanishing from view. Lyra is almost certain that she imagines the pink tinge that spreads across the warden’s cheeks.

They reach the knot of bodies around what appears to be the main fire. A dark haired man half-bent over what Lyra assumes must be a map motions for the warden to join him. She does, but not before guiding her to where Fenris, Isabela, and Merrill wait.

“What’s happened?” Lyra asks as soon as she’s close enough to be heard.

“The slavers are idiots is what happened,” Isabela sneers.

“They have attempted to storm the city,” Fenris clarifies.

Lyra raises an eyebrow. “They want to take on the warden to get to me?”

“To get to us,” Fenris says. “I do not think they will be content with taking just you back with them. They will take as many of the elves as they can.”

She wraps her arms around herself.

Isabela is called over to the warden. Merrill flits back and forth from the fire to different groups of elves as they pass, offering whatever reassurances she can.

When it is just the pair of them, Fenris places a hand on her shoulder.

“It is not your fault,” he says. She makes a noise of disbelief, and hands grip both of her shoulders, guiding her to face him. “It is not your fault,” he repeats. “It is theirs.”

“We’ll have to go into the estate to do the ritual,” Merrill’s voice says as she appears next to the pair. “Warden Cousland says the place is defensible and that there’s room enough inside.”

“What will you need?” Fenris asks.

Merrill’s brow furrows in thought. “Not much. I’ve got the herbs I need for the poultice. Mainly, I’ll need the space and the time.”

Fenris nods. “Then you will have both.”

The warden’s voice chimes above the din. The three elves join the group crowded around the map.

“The slavers have moved into the city,” she says without preamble. “They’ve gained some ground along the perimeter, but they won’t have the estate.

“You three,” she continues, turning her attention to Fenris, Lyra, and Merrill, “go into the castle. Get the ritual done. When you’ve finished, find us.”

“If we’re still around to find,” the dark haired man at her side says. The warden throws him a cold look.

“Find us when you’re done,” the warden repeats. “Now, go.”

* * *

 

Merrill is almost silent as she leads them through the halls. She guides them to a secluded corner of the house and gestures for Lyra to stretch out on a bedroll that’s been spread out on the floor. A mortar and pestle sit next to the bedroll.

As Lyra crawls onto the bedroll, Merrill crouches next to her. She pulls several packets from a pouch slung around her hips and pours their contents into the bowl. She examines them after several moments of crushing. When she deems them ready, she gives a sharp nod.

Lyra doesn’t see the knife appear in Merrill’s hand, but she feels the sting of it as it traces along her arm, cutting a line parallel to her scar from her first encounter with the slavers.

Merrill glances at her in apology when she sees Lyra wince. She tilts Lyra’s arm so that the blood dribbles into the bowl.

The elf is reciting a chant in a language that Lyra doesn’t properly understand, though the words stir something in her core.

She feels the odd tingle of the poultice being spread across her arm. There is an itch, a chill, and a burn each in turn. She moves her mouth to ask Merrill if this is what she should be feeling, but a cloud covers her vision and swallows her consciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A tree fell down in my yard and took out my internet, so my posting may be slowed a little, but we're not far from done with this one, I think. One or two more chapters at most. If you haven't, check out my Hawke/Isabela fic "Sweet Things."
> 
> As always, thanks for reading, and feel free to check out my author page on Facebook for updates on my original work. There should be publication news soon.  
> https://www.facebook.com/AuthorASCrowder


	10. Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things have gotten weird.

She’s cold and sore when she wakes. Her arm itches along the line Merrill drew with the knife. She reaches to scratch it—or tries to. Her arm is like stone, too heavy to lift from the floor. As she thinks on it, she realizes that it isn’t only her arm that won’t move. Her entire body is weighted down. Even her eyelids refuse to allow her to lift them.

Panic builds under her skin. Merrill, she thinks, she has to call for Merrill.

It’s only with tremendous effort that she manages to work her jaw open. The only sound that issues from her throat is a rasp somewhere between a cough and a gurgle.

She swallows and tries again.

“Merrill?”

Her voice is weak but still echoes—more than it should, she thinks, considering the size of the room.

The haze is lifting from her mind. She’s able to roll from her back to her side, though every nerve in her body screams in protest.

She stretches her arm and swears when she sees that the skin is unmarred. The slice that Merrill had made has vanished—as has the scar from the slavers. Her fingers dance along the smooth skin as she stares open-mouthed at the mended flesh.

A sound in the distance startles her to her feet, all heaviness in her limbs gone.

“Merrill?” she ventures again.

No one answers. She doesn’t much expect anyone to.

She is not where she was—she knows that immediately and without question. The icy air has none of the earth-and-rot smell that permeates the Cousland estate. She taps experimentally at the floor—too smooth to be the cobbled floors of the estate.

Her eyes finally adjust to the dark. There’s a blue hue to the room. It’s not quite light, but it does seem to create a path, winding away and off to her right. Seeing no better options, she groped blindly for something to guide her while she followed it.

She only makes it a few steps before something halts her. She sways on her feet, sudden vertigo overtaking her.

There’s a sound, only just audible. It’s the hiss of the wind through the trees—but too consistent. A steady, whispering pulse that douses her in ice. She’s suddenly not sure that she wants to move forward.

Part of her is dimly aware that this sound, the feeling of cold dread that roots her to the spot, is part of the magic. Something in the slaver’s spell that is fighting to keep its hold on her. If she’s to be free of it, she will have to fight it.

Her stomach rolls in protest as she forces herself to take a step forward. The second step she takes brings bile to her throat.

Months ago, at the start of all of this mess, the sickness and trepidation would have cowed her.

Now, she spares only one wistful thought for the daggers that are absent from her belt. She grimaces, squares her shoulders, and walks on.

She wraps her arms around herself as she walks. The cold turns her breath into puffs of mist, and it doesn’t take long for her nose and ears to sting in the icy air.

Her teeth chatter as she winds her way through the twisting path. She can see very little of her surroundings. Now and then, the vague blue tint that lights the area reveals the curve of a wall, the vaguest impression of some structure.

But she seems to be alone—and she’s not sure if she should find that unsettling. If she’s alone, there’s nothing to attack her, but months of hyper vigilance, of being ready to run or fight at a moment’s notice have left a creeping paranoia that tugs at her mind.

She’s been hunted long enough to be suspicious of the quiet.

Something warm and wet lands on her shoulder. She jumps and shrieks, her hand flying to where the substance made contact. She wipes at her skin, but her hand comes away dry. She frowns at her clean hand, unable to make out much of anything in particular about its appearance in the dim light.

The substance makes contact again. This time, she tries to trace its origins. She squints at the ceiling—or where she thinks the ceiling might be. As far as she can tell, nothing is there.

The odd hissing pulse continues, intensifies. She tries to shake it away, wills herself not to hear it, but it creeps into her bones and buries itself in her marrow.

Her vision dips and spins as she sinks to her knees, bile rising in her throat. Tremors rack her body and tears sting at her eyes. She presses her forehead against the cold stone of the floor, trying to still herself, trying to _focus_.

There is a slight pressure against her spine, and she wheels around with a yelp.

She can just make out the outline of a person, their hands raised in placation, taking a few steps back from her. Something in her still wants to be wary, but the world has stopped spinning and the eerie whisper has softened and she is so grateful not to be alone that she approaches the figure.

As she moves, blue-white lines illuminate a path along the figure’s body. She gasps in recognition.

Fenris stands before, though she knows it can’t be Fenris because she saw him go off with the warden, didn’t she? She mouths wordlessly at him as she continues to close the space between them.

It can’t be him. It _can’t_ be him.

And it’s not, she realizes as she gets closer. It’s a very good approximation—his shape and stance are perfect. But there’s something off in the expression. It’s too blank. Fenris is not effusive, but there is always some suggestion of what he’s feeling on his face. This Not-Fenris is expressionless.

Not-Fenris watches her take in his appearance. His eyes follow her as she circles him, frown on her face. He allows her a few rotations before he takes her hand and gives it a slight pull. He wants her to follow him. He makes a sweeping gesture at the dark expanse behind him and looks at her expectantly.

She chews her bottom lip for a moment. Something in this place is out to get her, trying to unnerve her with eerie sights and sounds and sensations. For all she knows, it can create constructs meant to lead her astray.

The Not-Fenris, though, lacks the sinister quality of the hissing noises, the dancing blue and shadows, the substances that are there-but-not that land on her.

His hand is still outstretched towards her, a silent plea in his eyes.

She takes a deep breath and slides her hand into his.

He gives her the barest of smiles before tugging her along with him into the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey hey.
> 
> Thanks for putting up with all these breaks, guys. It means a lot. My flashdrive that had all of my writing on it died. I was able to save most of the big stuff, but all my fanfic and short stories were lost. Super frustrating, but not as bad as it could have been.
> 
> Meanwhile, my book is out now. you can find it at foundationsbooks.com/library , if you're into that.
> 
> www.facebook.com/AuthorASCrowder on Facebook; piecesandthings on tumblr


	11. Eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a problem. There's also a monster.

The Not-Fenris leads her down a wending path. If she had any lingering notion that she was still within the confines of the Cousland estate, they are long gone. She is not as good at determining distances as her more well-traveled companions, but she understands the size of a high-ranking noble’s keep and knows that they have been walking long enough to be well outside its bounds.

She’s still not sure where exactly they are—some strange nether space that’s not quite reality. She would call it the Fade, but it’s nothing like the hazy dream world she’s seen in her sleep. The edges are too sharp, the angles too harsh. She edges her way closer to the whatever-it-is that has taken Fenris’s form. That it didn’t react to the contact only added to the surreal nature of the moment.

The hissing sounds, which had quieted while they were on their trek begin anew, drawing a curse from Lyra’s lips.

Not-Fenris presses his palm to her mouth. The icy-cold contact sends a shiver rattling down her spine. She quiets and watches him with wide eyes as he moves away from her.

The cold feeling his hand left on her face spreads through her body. Hissing swirls around her, filling her ears with deafening noise. The world goes bright, glowing a blinding blue-white before everything goes black.

Everything is quiet.

* * *

“They’re turning back!” one of the warden’s men is shouting from the ramparts.

It appears to be the case. The woods are ablaze. Some of Merrill’s elves lay dead, but they are far outnumbered by the bodies of slavers. Fenris is not sure how many of the hunters have made the trip to Highever, but he supposes they’ve lost as many as half of their number in this first push towards the estate.

His eyes catch the warden’s silhouette as she cuts her way across the field. Fenris had once thought that Hawke was unique among humans for his ability to take charge of any given situation and force it to bend to his will.

Seeing the warden, he half-wonders if that bullheaded insistence on ensuring the best outcome isn’t a trait found in all Fereldens.

A voice that he doesn’t recognize calls his name, drawing his attention away from the line of soldiers pushing the hunters back from the estate.

An elven boy, one of Merrill’s child protégés stares up at him red-faced and wide-eyed.

“What is it?” he demands. He tries to keep the edge out of his voice. If the minute step away from him the boy takes away from him is any indication, he is not quite successful. He crouches to the boy’s eye level. “What do you need?” he asks again. He thinks he does better this time.

“Merrill says to need to go to her,” the boy says, pointing back towards the estate. “She says there’s something gone wrong with the ritual.”

Fenris swears under his breath as he gets to his feet. “Go somewhere safe,” he tells the boy. “I’ll find Merrill.”

He watches the boy until he slips into the darkness where Fenris knows the elves that are unwilling or unable to fight are hidden before he takes off in the direction of the Cousland house proper.

He hears Merrill before he sees her. She is pacing a line back and forth across the earthen basement floor, muttering to herself in a mixture of Common and Elvhen.

“What’s happened?”

She spins on her heel with a yelp when she hears his voice.

“I don’t know,” she admits. “Not really. It was fine, she was getting better, but something broke the connection. I tried to get back to her, but something is keeping me out.”

His gaze drifts to Lyra. She is stretched out on the bedroll, eerily pale and still. Her dark hair is soaked with sweat. Her skin gleams with it in the sickly light.

She looks _bad_.

Fenris swallows as he turns his eyes away from her. “Why send for me? What can I do?”

Merrill catches her bottom lip between her teeth.

“Just tell me what I need to do,” he insists.

Merrill takes a hold of his wrist and though every fiber of his being wants to pull away, he allows her to lead him to Lyra’s side. She rests his hand on Lyra’s arm and her hand on top of his. He can feel the buzz of magic tracing along the lyrium lines in his skin, a burning wrongness he has only felt a few times.

“You’ll have to go after her,” Merrill’s voice sounds far away. “Bring her back, and the magic will be undone.”

He is suddenly sinking into darkness that closes over his head.

* * *

A voice is calling her name, but she can’t bring herself to move.

She’s curled on her side, her arms covering her face, trembling hard enough that her bones rattle. She is dead, but her body doesn’t know it yet. Her protectors are dead and she is to blame. She’s burning with cold. She wishes she would _just die_.

Hands land on her shoulders, heaving her to her feet. She doesn’t fight the force moving her, but she doesn’t help it, either.

Whoever—whatever is holding her is warm, solid, alive. She curls into it, and it surrounds her.

It’s not exactly a comfortable position, pressed up against the other body. Whatever it’s wearing is hard and sharp, not made for such close proximity to another person. The other body does not seem comfortable, either. It doesn’t pull away, but she gets the sense that it would very much like to.

She takes a woozy step back. She’s not sure what’s happened. Darkness overtook her, she knows. It made her relive her worst times, made her watch as the people she cared about, from her past and her more recent companions, were slaughtered in their attempts to save her. The cold grip of dread on her mind is receding, but she is left feeling slow and stupid in its wake. She blinks several times in an attempt to bring herself back.

“Lyra?”

Her eyes land on the body she has moved away from. “Fenris?”

He opens his mouth to speak, but doesn’t seem to be able to form words. He manages her name again before a growing frustration silences him.

He’s not the same as the specter she saw before. He is battle-worn and grim-faced, but something of a warmth lingers in his features. Though he is just as unable to communicate as his doppelganger, there is a realness, a solidness to him.

The not-Fenris felt benign. This man felt _good_. She offers her hands to him.

His lips twitch up into a grin as he takes hold of her hands. He gives her hands a light squeeze and gestures with his chin over his shoulder.

“You want me to follow you?” she asks.

He squeezes her hands again.

Her eyes sweep their surroundings. There is not an inviting path to be found. She presses her lips together in worry.

Fingertips brush feather light against her jaw, coaxing her to turn her head back to Fenris. He is still unable to form words, but the plea in his eyes is clear.

“Alright,” she whispers. “Lead the way.”

* * *

Merrill’s instructions had been lacking. He had understood that his mind would be somehow connected to Lyra’s, that he would need to lead her out of the nether-space between the thrall of the spell and reality. But she hadn’t told him how he would be able to do that—or that he would have to do so without being able to say more than Lyra’s name.

He finds Lyra easily, which is a great relief. There is a whisper in his brain that suggests where he will need to lead her, which is even more reassuring. She is not immediately willing to follow him. He doesn’t know what she has experienced in the time between the start of Merrill’s spell and when he finds her, but he has his suspicions, and those are enough to send anger roiling through his stomach.

They wind their way through the maze of a space. As they progress, the darkness begins to recede—that alone seems to be enough to lift her spirits.

For a brief, foolish moment, he believes that the pair of them will soon be through with the entire ordeal.

Something collides with the pair of them, knocking Lyra off her feet and sending him stumbling back.

A creature like non he has ever seen floats between them. It is easily three times Lyra’s size and looks like some horrible marriage between man and serpent and spider. An inky black substance drips from its claws as it reaches towards Lyra.

He wants to shout for her to move, but he can’t. He doesn’t have to. Lyra rolls away from the grasping monster effectively if not gracefully. His relief at her escape is short-lived. The creature does not appear to intend to leave them be, and the pair of them are unarmed.

As soon as the thought of his blade crosses his mind, he can feel the weight of it against his back. He scrambles to pick apart the knot that holds it in place while his eyes follow Lyra and the monster’s movements.

She barely evades the monster’s next three strikes. Its claw gouge deep marks in the smooth surface of their surroundings and it shrieks with increasing fury at every failed attack. He can see Lyra’s panic as she reaches desperately for the pair of daggers that are not there—until suddenly they are. Her eyes widen almost comically as her hand wrapped around the pommel of one of them. She pulls the dagger free as the beast swipes at her once more.

The blow lands, at least partially. The monster rips a chunk out of her side. She doesn’t bleed, precisely. Something blue and iridescent seeps out of the wound. She hisses in pain, but otherwise ignores the injury.

The sight of her hurt jolts Fenris out of his stupor. He lunges forward and swings at the beast. It shrieks as the blade connects with her back. He dodges the hand that swats at him, but loses his footing in doing so.

He loses sight of the battle for a moment, but he can hear Lyra’s exclamations. When he’s able to get to his feet, he sees her.

He has never seen her move like this before. She rolls out of the way of another attack, switching her grip on her daggers as she goes. The creature lashes out again. She launches herself at the beast, twisting away from a blast that the creature fires towards her at the last moment. The daggers sink into the creature’s back. Black blasts of liquid erupt from the wounds, hissing and spitting as they spatter on the landscape. She lets go of the blades and tumbles away from the beast, skidding across the ground on her side.

The creature manages to half turn towards her before Fenris put his body between it and Lyra. He drops to his knees and covers her body with his as another spurt of the burning black liquid lands near them.

He hears more than sees the creature’s body tearing itself apart. When he’s sure that they aren’t in immediate danger of being burned by the creature’s caustic blood, he risks a glance up.

It sounds as if it’s heaving up liquid from its lungs. It looks as though it is deflating like a punctured bladder. Waves of the blood slop out of it until it dissolves into a pile on the ground.

He scrambles to his feet. He crosses the distance to the creature’s body—what’s left of it. In normal circumstances, he would be satisfied that the creature is dead, but this is magic and demons and he would rather make doubly sure.

“Is it dead?”

Lyra’s voice is raw around the edges but she otherwise sounds well. He meets her eyes over his shoulder and nods.

She sighs as she pulls herself to her feet and pads her way towards him. Her eyes linger on the creature’s corpse for a long moment before her nose wrinkles in disgust and she looks away. Her arms are wrapped around her torso and she looks as uncertain as she had in the early days of their acquaintance.

He is tentative as he takes hold of her elbows, guiding her towards him. Her expression is baffled, but her arms unwind, allowing him to take hold of her hands once more.

The corner of her lips twitches up in a smile. “You still know the way out of here?”

His brow furrows. The whisper in his brain had gone quiet during the fight—or he had ignored it—but it returns with a gentle nudge. He catches her eyes and nods.

The sound of her laugh, at odds as it is with her surroundings, is bright and beautiful.

“Then let’s go,” she says.

He squeezes her hand and leads the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um, hi.
> 
> It always takes me so long to get back to this, and I'm sorry about it. 
> 
> I've been busy with work and also with my original fiction. Since the last update, my first novel has come out. You can find it here: https://www.amazon.com/Evin-S-Crowder/dp/1536852090/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1481158485&sr=8-1&keywords=a.s.+crowder
> 
> I've also started another original project that I thought was one book but is actually three, and I have a couple of short stories that are due pretty soon. But I won't bore you with all the details about that here. If you want updates on what's going on with me, check the Facebook page (www.facebook.com/AuthorASCrowder) or the twitter (@annabeth07) or piecesandthings on Tumblr.
> 
> There's just one more chapter of this left. For real this time.
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me.


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